Everybody has their own way of coming home.

I just returned from 10 days on the road--mere nothingness to those who spend months on end traveling from venue to venue, but for iLL-Lit it's one of the longest periods we've spent journeying together. The only other times we saw each other consistently for this long was in New York and Paris. This time we trekked--up and down NY state, then across the continent to Seattle with a touch down in Vancouver. Now, after 19 hours driving, 3 rental cars, 4 hotels, 3 flights, 2 countries, and 1 week before we leave home again, we're extremely tired.

The ride back is always quiet. Everybody has their own way of coming home. Dahlak usually flies into Sacramento, so we see him off at whatever airport we're leaving from. We try to book our flights around the same time but it always ends up feeling like a "Real World" moment, with him disappearing into the terminal while we head towards our gate. Nico keeps his iPod on while we wait for our luggage. Random comments but hardly conversation, at this point we've checked out of the social world and into our own heads. Ruby smiles and exhales with eyes half shut. "I'm going to hug my bed when I get home," she says tiredly. We hop into the respective car of our respective buddy (this time it was Josh) and get dropped off one by one, slinging our bodies and palms at each other in exhausted farewell gestures.

These times I feel like the odd one. After a week and a half of virtually no personal space, cooped in vehicles, rooms, planes, social settings with human beings for such a long period of time the rest of the crew is usually ready to retreat into their shells at least for the next couple of days. Before I hit my front door, I'm already texting people to see what's crackin that night.

I don't know where I get these nomadic impulses that, even after being gone for so long, only keep me in my apartment for 20 or so minutes before my fidgety feet lead me elsewhere. It doesn't matter if I'm fucked up by the timezone, or if my body thinks it's 6:38am, or if I'm dehydrated from being in the sky for so long with nothing but salted peanuts. I never experience the romantic sensation of walking into my house, putting my suitcase down, and plopping into my bed. I'm too restless for that. I always end up at some ungodly hour typing away at my computer or toking at Jose's apartment or burrowing myself in an epic phone conversation with someone at some other timezone. Tonight I got home, checked the mail, tossed my luggage in my trunk and made the 45 minute drive to my parents' house with the new Erykah Badu on knock. Even got lost on purpose so I could finish out the album.

Maybe it's withdrawal. The same morose feeling that would overwhelm me in college when stumbling into an empty apartment after an organization gathering. It's a seclusion that's welcomed, embraced by many and that I've always believed in principally. Execution, on the other hand, is different.

Of course, I do have moments where I crave confinement. But perhaps it's an obsessive extroversion, but after these trips, it feels like I want nothing more than to talk, touch, hold, gaze, taste, take in people. I don't think it's a crime. Just the way I rest my roots in this crazy beautiful life.


Ps: The new Erykah is the truth. Get it Tuesday.